Antonio Machado
Antonio Machado
Antonio Machado, in full Antonio Cipriano José María y Francisco de Santa Ana Machado y Ruiz, was a Spanish poet and one of the leading figures of the Spanish literary movement known as the Generation of '98...
NationalitySpanish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth26 July 1875
CitySeville, Spain
CountrySpain
doubt size cellular
There are a lot of doubts over the size and effect of new competitors in the cellular sector.
heart sleep night
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - That it was God I had here inside my heart.
path life-is beats
Life is the path you beat while you walk it.
views your-side half
I. Don't trace out your profile-- forget your side view-- all that is outer stuff. II. Look for your other half who walks always next to you and tends to be who you aren't.
sea feet stopping
Wayfarer, the only way is your footsteps, there is no other. Wayfarer, there is no way, you make the way as you go. As you go, you make the way and stopping to look behind, you see the path that your feet will never travel again. Wayfarer, there is no way- Only foam trails to the sea.
spiritual path behinds
By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind sees the path
writing order firsts
In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.
made walking
There is no road, the road is made by walking.
hands circles waiting
Hell is the bloodcurdling mansion of time, in whose profoundest circle Satan himself waits, winding a gargantuan watch in his hand.
thinking language
The only living language is the language in which we think and have our being.
flower garden wind
The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses." "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead." "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain." the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?
writing soul sin
The unpublished manuscript is like an uncon-fessed sin that festers in the soul, corrupting and contaminating it.
wall memories spring
The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown.
truth passion men
Man's passion for truth is such that he will welcome the bitterest of all postulates so long as it strikes him as true.